It had been a long time since Jim had smelled anything, but as the flames crawled up the cabin walls, he swore he could smell the smoke just the same as if he’d been standing at the edge of a bonfire before a big football game. It was acrid and sweet at the same time, burning the little hairs inside his nose.
I ain’t ever stood in the middle of a fire before, Thomas said. I keep expecting it to burn me, even though I know better. You reckon we ought to get out?
Jim looked around. The flames were everywhere now, licking the ceiling, all the walls glowing red with heat. He walked over to the wall by the bed to touch it, to see if he would burn, but his fingers slipped through the flames and through the wall. He didn’t feel a thing.
He sniffed the air again, but this time there was no smell of smoke, and he knew he’d been imagining it before.
We won’t burn, Jim said. I don’t reckon it matters if we stay or go.
A fellow had to be in a bad way if he couldn’t even get burned up in a fire. That’s how you knew you weren’t part of nature anymore. That’s how you knew you weren’t like anything else in this world.
I wish I could burn down with this cabin, he said out loud. I’m tired of being this way, like I’m only half alive. I’d rather go up in smoke.
Thomas was quiet a moment before he spoke.
Don’t you understand? You ain’t even the least little bit alive. Not even one quarter alive. You ain’t been alive for a long time.
Jim ignored him. The fire was growing louder, and the roof made ominous, threatening noises. So what if it fell on his head? Jim wouldn’t feel it, wouldn’t be broken by it. When the fire finally burned out, there he’d be, in the middle of nothing, just another part of the nothingness.
I’m not moving, he said.
You just want to stay stuck here till the end of time?
You’ve been stuck longer than me. I don’t see you going anywhere.
Thomas flinched, and Jim felt bad about saying that. Sometimes he forgot that Thomas was just a little kid.
I’ma waiting for the folks to come get me, that’s all, Thomas said. Ain’t nobody get cross that river by themselves.
A beam cracked in half and fell at Jim’s feet. Fact was, that cabin didn’t have much longer before it was a pile of ash, and then what? He looked for his name on the wall, but it had already been eaten by the flames. Jim felt something hard rise in his throat. Looked like the last bit of him had finally been erased from this world.
You think you ought to do that? Harry asked, and Jim looked around for his old friend Harry Partin. He wasn’t there, and neither was Robert Lincoln, but Jim could see them in his mind, standing in the middle of the cabin, clear as day, and him, too, holding Robert’s pocketknife in his hand.
“Aw, this old cabin don’t belong to no one,” Robert had said. “I told you my daddy said it was here when he was a boy. Claims he spent the night here once and it felt haunted.”
All three boys had laughed at that. They were twelve years old and didn’t believe in ghosts or the afterlife or hauntings. They might say they believed in death, but they didn’t, not in any real sort of way.
Jim jabbed Robert’s knife into the wall plank. It took a fair bit of effort to make the line of the J, the plank being made of oak and resistant to the blade. Took Jim five minutes to carve the three letters of his name, and by this time the other boys were complaining, saying, “Come on, Jim, you can finish it some other time.”
But no. Jim wanted to finish it now. When he was done, he pulled the blade from the wood and saw that he’d ruined it.
“I’ll give you mine when we get back,” he told Robert.
“It don’t matter,” Robert had said. “It wasn’t any good anyway.”
Robert Lincoln. Jim wondered if he’d ever come back to the cabin after that day, ever traced his finger along the marks of Jim’s name.
Jim had never gone back, not until this summer. Couldn’t have gone back. Twenty minutes after he’d written his name, the river had claimed him.
I used to come up here, he told Thomas now. A few times, anyway, back when I was—younger.
You still a young’un, Thomas said. Look like one to me, anyway.
The fire was roaring now, but Jim could hear a dog’s howls come through the flames, high and anxious. Buddy! Buddy was out in the yard.
You don’t go out, he might try to come in, Thomas said. Might try to save you.
How am I supposed to get out of here?
Through the door, just like anybody.
You coming with me? Jim asked.
Thomas didn’t say anything for a minute.
You sure he a good dog? he asked finally. He a dog that won’t hurt you?
He won’t hurt you, Jim promised. He reached his hand toward the door and let it slip through. Put a foot forward, took one step, then another. The door was burning, but when he went through it, the wood was cold. Every part of him was like liquid, like he was being poured from one side of the door to the other.
Buddy stood at the edge of the clearing. When Jim and Thomas stepped out into the yard, he stopped howling and started barking, running toward the woods and then back again.
Wants us to follow him, I reckon, Thomas said.
Jim heard voices in the woods. Buddy barked again and headed down a path away from the approaching footsteps. Jim and Thomas followed. The path Buddy led them on headed downhill. Through the trees Jim caught glimpses of people heading uphill, heard water sloshing in buckets.
They’re coming to save the cabin, he told Thomas.
Too late for that, Thomas replied. We better keep following your dog.
Wait a second, Jim said. He’d spotted Wendell and Callie in the long line of people. I want to go see someone.
Thomas followed him over to the line, and the two of them stood there for a minute, watching Wendell and Callie passing buckets up the hill. Jim wondered if he’d see Wendell again after today. Didn’t know exactly where he was going, but he reckoned it wouldn’t be around here. He wondered if Wendell had ever felt him nearby, or sensed that someone was trailing him through the woods or standing in the cabin while he looked around.
He always did seem like a good sort, Thomas said, and Jim nodded.
I don’t know, Jim said. It wasn’t home or anything. But I guess it kind of was for a little while.
Time to move on, Thomas said. Maybe home’s some place we ain’t even thought of yet.
And so they left, going farther and farther down, the noise of the river slapping at its edges growing louder and louder. Jim slowed his steps.
I can’t go down there, he said.
Buddy barked from down the path, and Jim could feel a need in his voice, a wanting. There was some place Buddy had to be, and he couldn’t get there if Jim didn’t go with him.
He took a deep breath. Only, he knew it wasn’t a breath, just the memory of one. He looked at Thomas.
Are you coming with me?
Where else I got to go?
Together they headed for the river.